


rock bottom

by howellesterfics



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Depression, it be like that sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 00:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16149119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howellesterfics/pseuds/howellesterfics
Summary: Phil is off visiting his parents. Dan attempts to do the dishes.





	rock bottom

It’s noon and Dan is sat at his kitchen table. He isn’t sure how long ago he crawled out of bed or when he took the time to put on joggers – but there they are on his legs. The usually soft fibers itch against his skin, and he has the irrational desire to kick them off into the floor. It’s not worth doing so, because then he’d have to pick them up and carry them to the laundry hamper and the thought of moving is making him physically deflate even further. 

It’s days like this one that makes Dan wonder if he still needs his meds. That tiny, once a day pill that made his brain do the thing it was supposed to be preprogrammed to do. That little capsule he thought nothing of as he took it with a biscuit each morning, taking for granted all the times it worked to fix the chemical imbalance happening in his head. It helped him for several months and maybe - maybe his therapist and doctor were wrong. What did they know, anyway? They only knew as much as Dan told them each month, and that information could have been miscommunicated in a million different ways. 

Because Dan wanted to be better, and what was stopping him from subconsciously tricking himself into believing he had been making progress? 

He might not ever crawl completely out of the hole. Today he feels like he’s at the very bottom of it, his limbs drawn into a tight ball as he stares at the dirt walls in distrust. He imagines himself far down, blinking slowly and trying to ignore the worms and bugs inhabiting his space. But then he focuses his eyes and he’s in the kitchen again. The surroundings in each scene are equally familiar. He tries to ground himself by looking at individual objects, naming them in his mind.

The multi-colored chairs. 

The tiled floor that has a scuff mark from a pair of his formal shoes. 

The refrigerator magnets Phil has hoarded since the Manchester apartment. 

A couple of aprons hanging on a hook, including the cringey muscular torso one. 

The dirty dishes piled up in the – fuck.

Something about the sight makes Dan’s chest feel as though something has gripped onto his lungs and constricted around them. There’s a good number of dishes stacked up in the sink. The night before Phil had left, they had made stir-fry and fallen asleep without cleaning up. The next morning, they made quick pancakes before Phil had to catch his train. 

Dan’s only expectation while alone was to wash the fucking dishes. And now he can’t stop his chin from quivering as he stares up at them. It only reminds him that he can’t be normal, that a couple of plates and pans is enough to hit him with such velocity that it makes his whole body shake. There’s not even a hint of sadness despite the frustrated tears that he scrubs away as soon as they fall. It’s just an overwhelming sense of uselessness because he knows that he won’t be able to do it. Those dishes are going to sit there and the gross bits of food on them will harden and crust over and it will make it even more difficult when he finally can wash them. 

Their dishwasher hasn’t been working so he’s been “taking turns” with Phil doing them by hand, and Dan always weasels out of it because he hates the dishes. 

Phil is going to think he’s left them on purpose. He’s going to think it’s just classic Dan – lazy, unreliable. Selfish.

Looking at the sink is making him squeamish, so he gets up and scoots the chair in, unbothered by the way it screeches against the linoleum. To the moon room he goes, to unplug his phone from the charger and collapse on the bed. The time says that it’s 12:34 now. Probably not the perfect time for a nap, but then his head is already on the pillow and he finally finds the energy to slide the joggers off his legs. Kicking them into the floor would make a visible mess, so they just stay beneath the duvet with him, bunched up at the foot of the bed. He falls asleep.

Waking up for the second time isn’t harder nor easier. The nap didn’t solve the dread hanging over him and waking up to his happy, sprightly ringtone doesn’t lift his mood. 

He lifts his head, wipes some drool off his mouth and looks at the image of Phil displayed on his phone’s screen. 

Pressing the green button means talking. Pressing the red button could cause Phil to worry. Could send the wrong message. So, he allows it to ring out. Every time the vibration buzzes next to his arm it feels like an accusation. It’s Phil. His boyfriend. And he’s ignoring the call. 

When the ringing stops, the missed call notification pops up on the home screen. It’s not the first one, though. There’s three missed calls within the past hour. Dan presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and whines lowly, kicking his feet to try to get the duvet off his legs; it takes a while but then he’s free from the cocoon and can stumble down the hall to the bathroom. He uses it quickly and splashes some water around in the sink to substitute a proper hand washing. It does almost nothing but gives him a fragile sense of control. 

Putting on a brave face, Dan walks into the kitchen with a mission in mind. If he can pick up one bloody spoon and wash it, it would erase some of the self-hate, surely. So, he does just that. He doesn’t run dish water but uses a cloth and some soap and scrubs a spoon clean with empty determination. It’s squeaky and shiny by the time he finishes, but for some reason he only wants to cry as he puts the spoon in the utensil drawer. 

Going against his basic instincts, he does another. And another. Soon, all the silverware is clean. 

Then he picks up a plate, one from the pancakes. Phil is bad at rinsing out his dishes, so there’s some sticky syrup still clinging to the rim of the plate. Dan wants to wash it. If he wants anything, it’s to wash this fucking plate. But the syrup is still there and dried up and repulsive. He didn’t stand a chance. 

It’s not a surprise when two minutes later he’s sat in front of the refrigerator crying into his knees, only able to process what had occurred as a personal failure. 

Suddenly its 3:30 pm. Dan is in the lounge with a book he hasn’t started to read, because he can hear the birds outside and the familiar noise embraces him like a quilt, rendering the distraction of the book useless. So, he melts into the cushions and listens to the birds and closes his eyes. He might be there for ten seconds or ten minutes before his phone dings again. The string of texts from Phil he’s been ignoring goes something like this:

it’s past noon, and youre not awake dannyboy?

Daaaaan call me back I wanna hear your rat voice

It’s after 2. I know you’re not napping this long. Dani snot on fire pls respond /:

I love you lots and im taking the famalam to dinner in a couple hours. Wanna talk to you before I get wine drunk with kath

Dan turns on the TV and flips through the channels. He stops on the news because there’s nothing on and listens to the droning voices of the broadcasters as they recount crime stories and other boring shite. When it becomes insufferable he switches it to some home improvement show. 

It’s 4:30 before Phil calls him again. His mouth dries up when he accepts the call and hits the speakerphone button decisively. 

“Oh. Oh- hey, I didn’t think you’d pick up. Um, hi,” Phil says. 

It hurts to hear the words, to know deep down how unreliable and self-centered he’s been. 

“Hi.” 

“Is everything okay there? I wasn’t sure if you were just busy working or-“ 

“I wasn’t.” 

“That’s fine, babe. You’ve done a lot lately. So, what have you been doing?” 

Dan wracks his brain, inevitably coming up empty. His chest squeezes again. It feels like enough pressure to make him nauseated. He knows not to lie about this, not to Phil. Phil knows he’s useless. 

“Napped.” 

“Lucky. I wish I had napped, I feel slightly zombie-fied. And now I have to get dressed and go outside. I envy you.” 

“I tried to wash the dishes,” Dan replies. He can’t help the way his voice sounds clipped and upset, or how the words leave his mouth with no permission. 

“Tried?” 

“I couldn’t do it,” he answers, biting down on his tongue. 

More frustrated tears rise to his eyes, but they don’t fall over this time. He blinks them away aggressively. 

“I tried, and I couldn’t fucking wash them. I wanted to-“ 

Dan sucks a deep breath in and it steadies him. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll try again, it’s fucking stupid-“ 

“Dan. You’re okay, breathe. It’s just a few dishes. I can get them when I get back tomorrow. Are you… are you okay? Has it been this bad all day?” 

Phil’s phone voice has always been a little deeper, a little more professional. When he’s talking like his, he could very well be some random depression hotline worker. Calm, collected, receptive. 

Dan looks down at his bare legs stretched out across the sofa; it seems like there’s miles between his eyes and his toes. 

“Yeah.” 

“Have you eaten?” 

Ah, the age-old question. It’s always one of the firsts when Dan gets like this. The repetition of both the question and his predominate answer reminds him of how helpless he can get. 

“I was going to get a sandwich any minute now.” 

“Were you really?” 

“I hadn’t thought about it. But don’t grill me about it. I’ll do it right now.” 

Dan resolutely avoids eye contact with the sink as he gets out some bread and a slice of cheese. It’s the gross, processed kind that comes wrapped in plastic, but it’s food. He quickly assembles his sandwich, talking to Phil the whole time. 

“I made it.” 

“Proud of you. You deserve better than a cheese sandwich but I’m glad you’re eating. I’ll make you something good tomorrow, promise.” 

“Please don’t. I already feel so guilty about the dishes.” 

“You shouldn’t, Dan. Take care of yourself. I’d rather throw out the plates than have you neglect yourself.”

Dan doesn’t go to bed that night until three a.m., mostly because Phil said he’d get wine drunk with Kathryn and that’s always fun, but it ended up not happening. He sent Phil a text at ten, asking why he wasn’t receiving fun drunk texts as per usual, but Phil told him he didn’t feel like drinking at dinner. Dan could smell the bullshit from a mile away, and he knew it was for his benefit that Phil hadn’t drank. He wanted to stay coherent enough to periodically check on Dan’s mental state. 

It was touching and guilt-inducing and disappointing all at once. And then Dan spent the next hours obsessively reading all the texts between him and Phil that were saved to his phone. All the domestic reminders of ‘buy milk pls’ and ‘pick up your socks before I strangle u :-)).’ It was calming but took forever to read them all. 

He doesn’t wake up the next day until one in the afternoon because of it. When he does eventually come to, his brain is considerably less jumbled than before. It’s as if someone had tossed him a rope and there’s a way to get out of the hole. He hasn’t quite taken hold of it yet, but the offering stands. 

So, Dan puts his joggers from yesterday back on and brushes his teeth, unaware of how late in the day it is. He isn’t expecting Phil to be back for a few more hours, so it’s a shock at first to see him in the lounge on his laptop. 

Dan’s body seems to visibly relax upon seeing him. Instinctually. 

“Phil,” he says it in a sigh, hurrying over to the sofa to flop down next to him. 

“You’re back.”

“I’m back,” Phil laughs, taking Dan’s cheek in his hand. It fits there perfectly. They share a quiet, easy kiss. 

“Do you want to watch something? I brought back some cake from mum’s and we can be naughty and have it for breakfast,” Phil says. 

His eyes are searching, flitting across Dan’s face, for a sign that he’s still down. Dan imagines the rope lowered into the hole. He doesn’t have the upper body strength to climb up it alone, but maybe just grabbing onto it is the first step. 

“There’s nothing I could want more.”


End file.
